


Eldain's Song

by crookperkdeck



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: backstory speculation, i really adore eldain so i thought he deserved a little fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookperkdeck/pseuds/crookperkdeck
Summary: Every bard has his muse, a trauma weaved into beauty.





	Eldain's Song

Eldain received only one gift from his family in the time that they were alive.

They were inspired to save up for it when they saw how he delighted to hear the music of an old elf who took it up on occasion, the notes of the flute a shift away from the misery of their home life. The elf only played when struck up with the mood to do so, but every time, the young Eldain would rush out of the home in a hurry to listen. It didn't matter if he was playing with the other children, or helping cook--he truly wanted nothing more than to hear the music as clearly as possible.

So after a few years, when the old elf finally passed, he was given the gift: a beautiful, handmade lute that he surely would need time to grow into. And all the light that had drained from Eldain's face at the elf passing was instantly rekindled. They told him there was no one nearby to give him lessons for such an instrument, and that he still needed to help around the house, but he was without a care.

The soft-spoken boy was already sitting himself down to strum away, notes loud and discordant and his family laughing at how endearing it was. After enough weeks, the neighbors started to complain and he had to take his music to the woods where he would only scare off woodland creatures. But he never tired of the practice, enjoying how learning this craft was his and his alone, and eventually both the woodland creatures and neighboring elves were no longer frightened of his playing.

When Eldain got old enough, he was told to refrain from doing his chores and instead take up a business to help support the family. He briefly considered music as this avenue, but hadn't heard a single story of a successful elven musician and had to abandon the thought. He decided, instead, he could still learn how to connect with others, just without song--he would become a merchant, and amend relations between the elves and dh'oine through this craft. Then, they might even be able to welcome him into their musical circles.

Being out on business helped him avoid being slaughtered like his family.

The humans hadn't left a single survivor, even with all the work he had done, and even the bodies were piled into the houses they had set aflame. Eldain had lost the family he had learned so long to support, who had supported him, and so he set fire to his own business to fall to ashes like the rest.

His only surviving memoir was the lute, older now and having needed several repairs over the years.

He left with only that, playing to himself a song he had been perfecting for his family to hear. It started as a soft, soothing melody, but as the tears began to stream down his face--the result of grief and so much ash in the air--the pace picked up and it became a wild and rapid dance of his fingers. He played until his fingers ached, even with the calluses so patiently developed on them.

The calluses helped when being taught how to shoot an arrow, as a result.

The Scoia'tael took him in--looking for people like him, these angry and hopeless stragglers who were determined to become warriors. And he played his song for them, feeling their passion exist as one with his, and he heard the music in his heart every day he trained.

He ended up abandoning the longbow--the string reminded him too much of his lute--and practiced in the art of blades. Now this weapon was music; the careful and precise cuts making a performance out of the battlefield.

He learned, after a victory, to bow before his defeated enemies so they would know and recognize the skill their cruelty had made him.

Once a weapon of song, now the lute was one of war, and his hand, wet with the blood of humans, plucked the strings and stained the instrument crimson.

In his mind he called his song a ballad, but knew it was to become a funeral dirge. To think the dh'oine would make such misery out of beauty.

Then they all were to hear his song, and understand his pain.


End file.
